A Question of Blood

  The streets were quiet, no sign of Steve Holly. Not that he was looking for him. He got into his Saab and tried gripping the steering wheel, turning it left and right. He thought he could manage. He drove down Marchmont Road and onto Melville Drive, heading towards Arthur’s Seat. He didn’t bother putting any music on, thought instead of everything that had happened, letting conversations and images swirl around.

  Irene Lesser: You might want to talk to someone . . . a long time to be carrying any baggage . . .

  Siobhan: quoting from that book.

  Kate: Bad Men Do . . .

  Boethius: Good men suffer . . .

  He didn’t think of himself as a bad man but knew he probably wasn’t a good one either.

  “I’m a Man”: title of an old blues song.

  Robert Niles, leaving the SAS, but without having been switched off first. Lee Herdman, too, had carried “baggage” with him. Rebus felt that if he could understand Herdman, maybe he would understand himself better, too.

  Easter Road was quiet, bars still serving, a queue beginning to form in the chip shop. Rebus was headed for Leith police station. The driving was okay, the pain in his hands bearable. The skin there seemed to have grown taut, as if from sunburn. He saw a space curbside, not fifty yards from the front door of the station, and decided to take it. Got out and locked the car. There was a camera crew across the street, probably wanting the station in the background as the reporter did his piece. Then Rebus saw who it was: Jack Bell. Bell, turning his head, recognized Rebus, pointed to him before turning back to the camera. Rebus caught his words:

  “. . . while CID officers like the one behind me continue to mop up, without ever offering workable solutions . . .”

  “Cut,” the director said. “Sorry, Jack.” He nodded towards Rebus, who had crossed the road and was standing directly behind Bell.

  “What’s going on?” Rebus asked.

  “We’re doing a piece on violence in society,” Bell snapped, annoyed at the interruption.

  “I thought maybe it was a self-help video,” Rebus drawled.

  “What?”

  “A guide to curb crawling, something like that. Most of the girls work down that way now,” Rebus added, nodding in the direction of Salamander Street.

  “How dare you!” the MSP spluttered. Then he turned to the director. “Symptomatic, you see, of the very problem we’re tackling. The police have ceased to be anything other than petty-minded and spiteful.”

  “Unlike yourself, I’m sure,” Rebus said. He noticed for the first time that Bell was holding a photograph. Bell held it up in front of him.

  “Thomas Hamilton,” he stated. “No one thought him exceptional. Turned out he was evil incarnate when he walked into that school in Dunblane.”

  “And how could the police have prevented that?” Rebus asked, folding his arms.

  Before Bell could answer, the director had a question for Rebus. “Were any videos or magazines found in Herdman’s home? Violent films, that sort of thing?”

  “There’s no sign he was interested in anything like that. But so what if he was?”

  The director just shrugged, deciding he wasn’t going to get what he wanted from Rebus. “Jack, maybe you could do a quick interview with . . . sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled at Rebus.

  “My name’s Fuck You,” Rebus said, returning the smile. Then he crossed the road again and pushed open the door of the police station.

  “You’re a disgrace!” Jack Bell was shouting at him. “An absolute disgrace! Don’t think I won’t take this any further . . . !”

  “That you making friends again?” the desk sergeant asked.

  “I seem to be blessed that way,” Rebus informed him, climbing the stairs to the CID office. Overtime was available on the Herdman case, which meant a few souls were still working, even at this hour. Tapping reports into computers or sharing gossip over hot drinks. Rebus recognized DC Mark Pettifer and walked over to him.

  “Something I need, Mark,” he said.

  “What’s that, then, John?”

  “The loan of a laptop.”

  Pettifer smiled. “Thought your generation preferred quill and parchment.”

  “One other thing,” Rebus added, ignoring this. “It has to be Internet-ready.”

  “I think I can sort you something out.”

  “While you’re doing that . . .” Rebus leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “Remember when Jack Bell got pulled in for curb crawling? That was some of your lads, wasn’t it?”

  Pettifer nodded slowly.

  “I don’t suppose there’d be any paperwork . . . ?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. He was never charged, was he?”

  Rebus was thoughtful. “What about the guys who stopped his car: any chance I could have a word?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Just say I’m an interested party,” Rebus said.

  But as it turned out, the young DC who’d dealt with Bell had moved stations and was now based at Torphichen Street. Rebus eventually got a mobile number for him. His name was Harry Chambers.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Rebus said, having introduced himself.

  “No bother, I’m just walking home from the boozer.”

  “Hope you had a good night.”

  “Pool competition, I made the semis.”

  “Good for you. The reason I’m calling is Jack Bell.”

  “What’s the oily bastard gone and done now?”

  “He keeps getting under our feet at Port Edgar.” It was the truth, if not the whole truth. Rebus didn’t think he needed to explain his desire to prize Kate away from the MSP.

  “Then make sure to wipe your shoes on him,” Chambers was saying. “About all he’s good for.”

  “I’m sensing a slight antagonism, Harry.”

  “After the curb crawling thing, he tried to get me knocked back to uniform. And all that guff he came out with: first he was on his way home from somewhere . . . then, when he couldn’t back that up, he was ‘researching’ the need for a tolerance zone. Aye, that’ll be right. The hoor he was talking to, she told me they’d already agreed on a price.”

  “Reckon it was his first trip down that way?”

  “No idea. Only thing I do know—and I’m being as objective as possible here—is that he’s a sleazy, lying, vindictive bastard. Why couldn’t that guy Herdman have done us all a favor and popped him instead of those poor bloody kids . . . ?”

  Back home, Rebus tried to remember Pettifer’s instructions as he set up the computer. It wasn’t the newest model. Pettifer’s comment: “If it seems sluggish, just feed in another shovelful of coal.” Rebus had asked him how old the machine was. Answer: two years, and already damn near obsolete.

  Rebus decided that something so venerable should be cherished. He gave the keyboard and screen a wipe with a damp cloth. Like him, it was a survivor.

  “Okay, old-timer,” he told it, “let’s see what you can do.”

  After a frustrating few minutes, he put in a call to Pettifer, eventually finding him on his mobile—in his car and on his way home to bed. More instructions . . . Rebus kept the line open until he was sure he’d succeeded.

  “Cheers, Mark,” he said, cutting the connection. Then he dragged his armchair over so that he could sit in relative comfort.

  Seated, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, head tilted slightly to one side.

  Watching Teri Cotter as she slept.

  DAY FOUR

  Friday

  12

  You slept in your clothes,” Siobhan commented, picking him up the next morning. Rebus ignored her. There was a tabloid on the passenger seat, same one Steve Holly had brandished the previous night.

  HELL HOUSE COP MYSTERY

  “It’s slim stuff,” Siobhan reassured him. And so it was. High on conjecture, low on facts. All the same, Rebus had ignored phone calls at 7:00 A.M., 7:15 and 7:30. He knew who it would probably be: the Complaints, try
ing to book an appointment for his persecution. He managed to turn the pages by dint of wetting the fingers of his gloves. “Rumors are flying at St. Leonard’s,” Siobhan added. “Fairstone was gagged and tied to a chair. Everyone knows you were there.”

  “Did I say I wasn’t?” She looked at him. “It’s just that I left him alive, nodding off on his sofa.” He turned a few more pages, seeking refuge. Found it in the story of a dog who’d swallowed a wedding ring—the one shaft of light in a paper full of grim little headlines: pub stabbings, celebs being outed by their mistresses, Atlantic oil slicks and American tornadoes.

  “Funny how a daytime TV host merits more column inches than an ecological disaster,” he commented, folding the paper and tossing it over his shoulder. “So where are we headed?”

  “I thought maybe a face-to-face with James Bell.”

  “Good enough.” His mobile rang, but he left it in his pocket.

  “Your fan club?” Siobhan guessed.

  “I can’t help being popular. How come you know the gossip at St. Leonard’s?”

  “I went there before I came to pick you up.”

  “A glutton for punishment.”

  “I was using the gym.”

  “Not a word I’ve come across before.”

  She smiled. When her own phone rang, she looked at Rebus again. He shrugged, and she checked the number on her screen.

  “Bobby Hogan,” she told Rebus, answering the call. He could hear only her side of the conversation. “We’re on our way . . . why, what’s happened?” A glance in Rebus’s direction. “He’s right here . . . not sure his phone’s charged up . . . yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Time you got one of those hands-free jobs,” Rebus told her as she ended the call.

  “Is my driving that bad?”

  “I meant so I could listen in.”

  “Bobby says the Complaints are looking for you.”

  “Really?”

  “They asked him to pass on the message. Seems you’re not answering your phone.”

  “I’m not sure it’s charged up. What else did he say?”

  “Wants to meet us at the marina.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Maybe he’s treating us to a day’s cruising.”

  “That’ll be it. A thank-you for all our diligence and hard work.”

  “Just don’t be surprised if the skipper turns out to be from Complaints . . .”

  “You saw this morning’s paper?” Bobby Hogan asked. He was leading them along the concrete pier.

  “I saw it,” Rebus admitted. “And Siobhan passed on your message. None of which explains what we’re doing here.”

  “I’ve also had a call from Jack Bell. He’s toying with making an official complaint.” Hogan glanced at Rebus. “Whatever it was you did, please keep it up.”

  “If that’s an order, Bobby, then I’m happy to oblige.”

  Rebus saw that there was a cordon at the top of the wooden ramp leading down to the pontoons where the yachts and dinghies were moored. Three uniforms standing guard beside a sign saying, BERTH HOLDERS ONLY. Hogan lifted the tape so they could pass through, leading them down the slope.

  “Something we shouldn’t have missed.” Hogan frowned. “For which I take responsibility, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Seems Herdman owned another boat, something a bit bigger. Seagoing.”

  “A yacht?” Siobhan guessed.

  Hogan nodded. They were passing a series of anchored vessels, bobbing up and down. That same clanking sound from the rigging. Gulls overhead. There was a stiff breeze, and occasional salt spray. “Too big for him to store in his shed. He obviously used it; otherwise, it’d be kept ashore.” He indicated the shoreline, where a series of boats sat on blocks, well away from the aging effects of seawater.

  “And?” Rebus asked.

  “And see for yourself . . .”

  Rebus saw. He saw a crowd of figures, recognized a couple of them as coming from Customs and Excise. Knew what that meant. They were examining something that had been laid out on a folded sheet of polyethylene. Shoes were being pressed to the corners of the polyethylene to stop it from blowing away.

  “Sooner we get this lot indoors, the better,” one officer was saying. Another was arguing that Forensics should take a look first, before quitting the locus. Rebus stood behind one of the crouched figures, and saw the haul.

  “Eckies,” Hogan explained, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “We reckon about a thousand. Enough to keep a few all-night raves going.” The Ecstasy tablets were in twelve or so translucent blue plastic bags, the kind you might use to store scraps of food in a freezer. Hogan tipped a few onto his palm. “Anything from eight to ten grand’s worth at street prices.” The pills had a greenish tinge to them, each one half the size of the painkillers Rebus had taken that morning. “There’s some cocaine, too,” Hogan continued for Rebus’s benefit. “Only a grand or so’s worth, maybe for personal use.”

  “We found traces of coke in his flat, didn’t we?” Siobhan asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And where was this lot?” Rebus inquired.

  “Stored in a locker belowdecks,” Hogan said. “Not very well hidden.”

  “Who found it?”

  “We did.”

  Rebus turned towards the voice. Whiteread was walking down the short plank connecting yacht to pontoon, a smug-looking Simms right behind her. She made a show of brushing dust from her hands.

  “Rest of the boat looks clean, but your officers might want to check anyway.”

  Hogan nodded. “Don’t worry, we will.”

  Rebus was standing in front of the two army investigators. Whiteread met his stare.

  “You seem happy enough,” Rebus said. “Is that because you found the drugs, or were able to put one over on us?”

  “If you’d done your job in the first place, DI Rebus . . .” Whiteread left it for Rebus to fill in the rest of the sentiment.

  “I’m still asking myself the ‘how?’”

  Whiteread’s mouth twitched. “There were records in his office. After which it was just a matter of talking to the marina manager.”

  “You searched the boat?” Rebus was studying the yacht. It looked well-used. “On your own, or did you follow SOP?” SOP: standard operating procedure. Whiteread’s smile leveled out. Rebus turned his attention to Hogan. “Jurisdiction, Bobby. You might want to ask yourself why they went ahead with the search without contacting you first.” He pointed towards the two investigators. “I trust them about as much as I’d trust a junkie with a chemistry set.”

  “What gives you the right to say that?” Simms was smiling, but only with his mouth. He looked Rebus up and down. “And talk about the pot calling the kettle black—it’s not us being investigated for —”

  “That’s enough, Gavin!” Whiteread hissed. The young man fell silent. The whole marina seemed suddenly still and noiseless.

  “This isn’t going to help us,” Bobby Hogan said. “Let’s send the stuff for analysis —”

  “I know who needs analysis,” Simms muttered.

  “— and meantime put our heads together to see what all of this might add to the inquiry. That all right with you?” He was looking at Whiteread, who nodded, apparently content. But she shifted her eyes to Rebus, daring him to hold her gaze. He stared back at her, knowing his message was being reinforced.

  I don’t trust you . . .

  They ended up in a convoy of cars, heading for Port Edgar Academy. There were fewer ghouls and news crews outside the gates, and no uniforms patrolling the perimeter to repel trespassers. The Portakabin had outgrown its usefulness, and someone had finally thought of annexing one of the classrooms in the school building. The school itself wouldn’t reopen for a few days yet; even then, the crime scene would remain locked and unused. Everyone had gathered behind desks, where pupils would normally have been seated to listen to their geography teacher. There were maps on the w
alls, rainfall charts, pictures of tribesmen, bats and igloos. Some of the team preferred to stand, legs slightly apart, arms folded. Bobby Hogan stood in front of the pristine blackboard. Beside it was a marker board bearing the single word Homework followed by three exclamation points.

  “Could have been meant for us,” Hogan stated, tapping the board. “Thanks to our friends from the armed forces here . . .”—he nodded in the direction of Whiteread and Simms, who’d chosen to stand in the doorway—“the case has taken a slight turn. A seagoing yacht and a quantity of drugs. What do we make of that?”

  “Smuggling, sir,” a voice stated.

  “Just to add one fact . . .” The speaker was standing at the back of the room: Customs and Excise. “The majority of Ecstasy coming into the UK originates in Holland.”

  “So we need to take a look at Herdman’s logs,” Hogan announced. “See where he’s been sailing to.”

  “Logs can always be falsified, of course,” the Customs man added.

  “We also need to talk to the Drugs Squad, see what they know about the Ecstasy scene.”

  “We’re sure it’s Eckies, sir?” a voice piped up.

  “Whatever it is, it’s not seasickness pills.” There was some forced laughter at this.

  “Sir, does this mean the case will be handed over to DMC?” DMC: Drugs and Major Crime.

  “I can’t answer that as yet. What we need to do is focus on the work we’re already doing.” Hogan looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. The only person not looking at him, he noted, was John Rebus. Rebus was staring at the two figures in the doorway, his eyebrows lowered in a thoughtful frown. “We also need to go over that yacht with a fine-tooth comb, see if we managed to miss anything else.” Hogan saw Whiteread and Simms share a look. “Right, any questions?” he asked. There were a few, but he dealt with them briskly. One officer wanted to know how much a yacht like Herdman’s would cost. An answer had already been provided by the marina manager: for a forty-foot yacht, six berths, you’d need sixty thousand pounds. If you were buying secondhand.